


Vacation: Corfu. Love and Dignity

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:18:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My overreaction to sentiment. Never mind me--I get the boys a bit of romance, Mycroft-style.</p><p>Pure, sweet fluff.</p><p>Now to return to more "serious" writing...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vacation: Corfu. Love and Dignity

Mycroft made a face—a sulky, sour, unimpressed face. “Anthea and I have put together a broad survey of cultural themes and motifs regarding the common cultural perception of ‘romance.’ We’ve concluded that the primary trope involves the complete humiliation of at least one participant as an indication of unending infatuation with the other. One would almost think the humiliation was the real allure.”

Lestrade, leaning back in a lawn lounger catching the rays, grunted a bit absently. “Yeah. Generally speaking, the sillier the more romantic.”

“Thus explaining ‘meet cute,’ and much of rom-com, and the underlying presumptions of much chick-lit?”

“Eh, it’s equal-opportunity gender, love. Can you say ‘manic pixie dream girl?’”

Mycroft sniffed from his own chair in the deep shade under the sycamore. “Bill-board proposals. Getting down on your knees—which is far too suggestive, if you ask me. It’s all about breaking the spirit and reducing the lover to a broken, groveling toy, helpless in the power his or her hormonal urges—isn’t it?”

“Whatever you say, love.”

“You’re not really listening, are you, Greg?”

“You’re absolutely right.”

Mycroft’s mouth turned up, and his eyes laughed. “And you’re turning green. It’s a scandal.”

“I know, I know. Just shocking.”

“And while I’m on about things, I’ve emptied your bank account, and had your things moved over to my flat.”

“Mmmm. Good. Glad you’re on that, Mike.”

“I intend to keep you in bondage, as my very own fuck toy.”

“Anything you sa….” Lestrade stopped, and looked over, then snorted with laughter. “Ok, caught me. And if you want me to be your sex slave, all you had to do was ask.”

Mycroft waggled his brows at him. “I don’t even need to ask…”

“Well, there is that.” Greg grinned. “So—you’re off on romance, are you?”

“I’m surprised you heard any of that.”

“Enough. I find sampling one sentence in five or six usually suffices when you’re in a swivet.” Looking at Mycroft’s pout, he laughed, and said, “If it’s any comfort, I only have to sample one out of fifteen with Sherlock—and I can usually just wait until he winds down and hands me the big reveal.”

Mycroft chuckled and stretched. “It really is a comfort.”

“So—romance?”

“Yes. Well. Anthea and I concluded it was all one huge conspiracy to turn lovers into shameless sluts—ideally in public.”

Greg thought about it. “I see how you can get that out of it. But it doesn’t have to be that way. That’s just, well…rom-com. The fluffy stuff. Mostly for shits and giggles, if you get what I mean.”

“One begs to doubt,” Mycroft said, darkly. “Go on dates. Fuss over clothing. Have catastrophic misunderstandings punctuated by cataclysmic sex. Purchase expensive gifts. Conclude with some overblown proposal involving tears and passionate assurances of abject devotion. It’s all rather repulsive.”

“Only if you take it as obligatory,” Greg said, leaning back in the armchair again and closing his eyes. “YMMV. Though I gotta say, love with unimpaired dignity is kind of challenged by the nature of the sex act itself.” He smiled to himself as his partner dissolved in sudden laughter. “Yeah. Thought you might laugh at that.”

“Considering last night…”

“Considering every night, you mean.”

“Very well. Still—there’s an element of ridicule and scorn built into the tropes, isn’t there?”

“Comedy, love.”

“Romance, love. At some level it seems to be about the lover brought low—beyond shame.”

“Yeah, well. I’ll tell you what. You tell Sherlock we’re lovers, and I’ll concede there’s not an element of pride involved in _failing_ to commit.”

The silence that fell was thick and still. Lestrade sighed, but refused to break it himself.

At least Mycroft cleared his throat. “Touche. That one drew blood.”

“Just a flesh wound. You’ll live.”

“I suppose.” Mycroft stretched in the dim, cool shade, and stared up through the green leaves above him, catching flashes of pale blue sky. “You haven’t asked me why Anthea and I put together the survey.”

“All right. I’ll bite. Why?”

“Because I wanted to do it right. But—our conclusions forced me to confess to myself that, no matter how much I love you, I just can’t…I can’t make a fool of myself by intent, Greg. Not even for you.”

Lestrade sat up, and frowned into the shade, suddenly alert. “What?”

“Bill-boards. Big diamond rings. White weddings. Flash-mob proposals with casts of thousands. Hiding the ring in the Chinese take-away. Going down on my knees. Even the classic ‘dinner at a flash restaurant and violins in the background.’ I can’t do it.”

Lestrade licked his lips, nervously. “You saying you wanted to?”

“No. I’m saying I want to propose without all the wretched, humiliating….goomba.”

Lestrade snorted, taken off-guard in so very many ways. “I don’t think ‘goomba’ means what you think it means, Mike. And—it’s your proposal. I think you’re allowed to do it any way you want.”

Mycroft refused to look away from the high leaves and the flickering sky. “No. Actually, it’s your proposal, and I would rather like to get it right. And I find I have unfortunate limits. Do you need humiliation as part of the romance? Because, well, at the very least I’d have to work my way up to it.”

“Kind of like admitting to Sherlock that we’re lovers?”

“I got that taken care of last week.”

Lestrade gulped. “Oh.”

Mycroft lay there, staring up. “Yes. It was…somewhat less painful than I feared.”

Lestrade swallowed, suddenly shaken, and smiled. “You never cease to amaze me, you know.”

They fell silent again.

Lestrade lay back, eyes closed, soaking up the rays. Mycroft studied the dark leaves moving restlessly in the breeze overhead.

“Yes,” Lestrade said. “I accept. Was that dignified enough for you?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, and smiled. “Dinner at the tavern?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Greg?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem, love. Happy to oblige. Is your pride intact?”

“Enhanced.”

“How’s that?”

“I am your intended. It is a rank for which my ambition hungered.”

Lestrade smiled, eyes still closed. “Awwww, you sweet-talking Casanova, you. You’re so romantic.”

Mycroft smiled. “Not according to our survey, love. Not according to our survey.”


End file.
